study?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps it would have seemed odd to Mr Yule if I had come in and begun to talk to him about these purely private affairs. He knows me so very slightly. But, in calling here for the first time—’
An unusual embarrassment checked him.
‘I will explain to father your very natural wish to speak of these things,’ said Marian, with tact.
She thought uneasily of her mother in the next room. To her there appeared no reason whatever why Jasper should not be introduced to Mrs Yule, yet she could not venture to propose it. Remembering her father’s last remarks about Milvain in connection with Fadge’s magazine, she must wait for distinct permission before offering the young man encouragement to repeat his visit. Perhaps there was complicated trouble in store for her; impossible to say how her father’s deep-rooted and rankling antipathies might affect her intercourse even with the two girls. But she was of independent years; she must be allowed the choice of her own friends. The pleasure she had in seeing Jasper under this roof, in hearing him talk with such intimate friendliness, strengthened her to resist timid thoughts.
‘When will your sisters arrive?’ she asked.
‘I think in a very few days. When I have fixed upon lodgings for them I must go back to Finden; then they will return with me as soon as we can get the house emptied. It’s rather miserable selling things one has lived among from childhood. A friend in Wattleborough will house for us what we really can’t bear to part with.’
‘It must be very sad,’ Marian murmured.
‘You know,’ said the other suddenly, ‘that it’s my fault the girls are left in such a hard position?’
Marian looked at him with startled eyes. His tone was quite unfamiliar to her.
‘Mother had an annuity,’ he continued. ‘It ended with her life, but if it hadn’t been for me she could have saved a good deal out of it. Until the last year or two I have earned nothing, and I have spent more than was strictly necessary. Well, I didn’t live like that in mere recklessness; I knew I was preparing myself for remunerative work. But it seems too bad now. I’m sorry for it. I wish I had found some way of supporting myself. The end of mother’s life was made far more unhappy than it need have been. I should like you to understand all this.’
The listener kept her eyes on the ground.
‘Perhaps the girls have hinted it to you?’ Jasper added.
‘No.’
‘Selfishness—that’s one of my faults. It isn’t a brutal kind of selfishness; the thought of it often enough troubles me. If I were rich, I should be a generous and good man; I know I should. So would many another poor fellow whose worst features come out under hardship. This isn’t a heroic type; of course not. I am a civilised man, that’s all.’
Marian could say nothing.
‘You wonder why I am so impertinent as to talk about myself like this. I have gone through a good deal of mental pain these last few weeks, and somehow I can’t help showing you something of my real thoughts. Just because you are one of the few people I regard with sincere respect. I don’t know you very well, but quite well enough to respect you. My sisters think of you in the same way. I shall do many a base thing in life, just to get money and reputation; I tell you this that you mayn’t be surprised if anything of that kind comes to your ears. I can’t afford to live as I should like to.’
She looked up at him with a smile.
‘People who are going to live unworthily don’t declare it in this way.’
‘I oughtn’t to; a few minutes ago I had no intention of saying such things. It means I am rather overstrung, I suppose; but it’s all true, unfortunately.’
He rose, and began to run his eye along the shelves nearest to him.
‘Well, now I will go, Miss Yule.’
Marian stood up as he approached.
‘It’s all very well,’ he said, smiling, ‘for me to encourage my sisters in the hope that they may earn a living; but suppose I can’t even do it myself? It’s by no means certain that I shall make ends meet this year.’
‘You have every reason to hope, I think.’
‘I like to hear people say that, but it’ll mean savage work. When we were all at Finden last year, I told the girls that it would be another twelve months before I could support myself. Now I am forced to do it. And I don’t like work; my nature is lazy. I shall never write for writing’s sake, only to make money. All my plans and efforts will have money in view—all. I shan’t allow anything to come in the way of my material advancement.’
‘I wish you every success,’ said Marian, without looking at him, and without a smile.
‘Thank you. But that sounds too much like good-bye. I trust we are to be friends, for all that?’
‘Indeed, I hope we may be.’
They shook hands, and he went towards the door. But before opening it, he asked:
‘Did you read that thing of mine in The Current?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘It wasn’t bad, I think?’
‘It seemed to me very clever.’
‘Clever—yes, that’s the word. It had a success, too. I have as good a thing half done for the April number, but I’ve felt too heavy-hearted to go on with it. The girls shall let you know when they are in town.’
Marian followed him into the passage, and watched him as he opened the front door. When it had closed, she went back into the study for a few minutes before rejoining her mother.
CHAPTER IX. INVITA MINERVA
After all, there came a day when Edwin Reardon found himself regularly at work once more, ticking off his stipulated quantum of manuscript each four-and-twenty hours. He wrote a very small hand; sixty written slips of the kind of paper he habitually used would represent—thanks to the astonishing system which prevails in such matters: large type, wide spacing, frequency of blank pages—a passable three-hundred-page volume. On an average he could write four such slips a day; so here we have fifteen days for the volume, and forty-five for the completed book.
Forty-five days; an eternity in the looking forward. Yet the calculation gave him a faint-hearted encouragement. At that rate he might have his book sold by Christmas. It would certainly not bring him a hundred pounds; seventy-five perhaps. But even that small sum would enable him to pay the quarter’s rent, and then give him a short time, if only two or three weeks, of mental rest. If such rest could not be obtained all was at an end with him. He must either find some new means of supporting himself and his family, or—have done with life and its responsibilities altogether.
The latter alternative was often enough before him. He seldom slept for more than two or three consecutive hours in the night, and the time of wakefulness was often terrible. The various sounds which marked the stages from midnight to dawn had grown miserably familiar to him; worst torture to his mind was the chiming and striking of clocks. Two of these were in general audible, that of Marylebone parish church, and that of the adjoining workhouse; the latter always
